Busting the Brass Ceiling

By Fanchon Blake and Linden Gross

FANCHON BLAKE changed the face of policing around the country.

 

She joined the LAPD in 1948 and walked a beat in a skirt and heels for three years. Her ambition to rise in the ranks would be curtailed by an increasingly discriminatory agenda, until her relentless tenacity finally led to a promotion to sergeant nineteen years later. When LAPD policy barred her from rising any further and threatened to eliminate women from the department, she sued, thereby initiating one of the country's landmark Title VII cases with little to no help from anyone.

 

Fanchon didn't understand what she was getting into when she filed a discrimination complaint against the LAPD with the federal Equal Employment Opportunity Commission in 1973. And she sure didn't realize that the complaint—and she—would make history for women and minorities.

Her betrayal of the LAPD's codes of silence and loyalty, however, would not go unpunished. Despite the ensuing verbal abuse, silent treatment, and intimidation, she pushed on.

 

Seven years later, her heroic efforts would finally make it possible for women to bust through the brass ceiling.   

 

"Fanchon Blake has been a hero of mine for many years. The class action [she] spearheaded helped end institutionalized sexual and racial discrimination practices not just in the LAPD, but law enforcement in general. Because of the precedent it set in Civil Rights law, Fanchon's crusade for women's rights has impacted—and improved—workplaces across the country. We owe her our respect and our gratitude."

Joseph Wambaugh

Bestselling author of police and crime books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Incubation Press
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780999858493

Book preview

Prologue

I loved being a cop on the streets, even in the 1940s, when women were not supposed to be doing things like that. I loved being an investigator. I aspired to be the first female chief of police on the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD), just as I had aspired to be the first female general in the Army. But during my twenty-five-year career on the department, neither my female colleagues nor I could ever reach our potential.

The name Fanchon means freedom. All my life, I have struggled to achieve that. So in 1973, after my efforts, along with those of others, to engender change within the department had repeatedly failed, I finally sued.

Claiming equal opportunity rights does not make me a man-hater. I held high admiration for many of the male police officers with whom I worked. Claiming all my rights, however, did make me controversial.

The LAPD, like so much of the rest of the world in those days, practiced wholehearted discrimination against women. It was an accepted way of life, a world view. Changing it was inconceivable. The United States Constitution had awarded women voting rights. The Civil Rights Act had declared that I was equal to men. But in the LAPD, policewomen weren’t allowed to promote past the rank of sergeant, which curtailed not only our professional advancement and pay scale, but also our pensions. For many years, we had to wear skirts and high heels, and carry our guns and handcuffs in our purses. We were considered weak and incapable of apprehending criminals. Worse, the department held our male counterparts accountable for our safety, which they understandably resented. By the early ’50s, we had been barred from regular police patrol assignments and relegated to safe assignments such as administration, community relations, or tasks related to females and juveniles. Being excluded from street patrol, a requirement for promotion, squashed any potential advancement.

Every time I rebelled at restrictions the LAPD placed on my career, I was labeled a troublemaker. It did not take a genius to understand that the real roadblock to changing the status of females on LAPD lay in the deeply ingrained attitudes of most male officers. Still influenced by the Victorian age that had long since passed, they perceived women as inferior to men—unable to make decisions or care for themselves as cops. No real he-man would tolerate a female giving him orders. Besides, most everyone knew that maintaining law and order required the kind of physical strength and intimidation that only a man could provide.

Ironically, in 1991, the Independent Commission on the Los Angeles Police Department, known as the Christopher Commission and formed in response to the Rodney King beating, would find that manifesting feminine behaviors and avoiding masculine ones caused female officers to outperform their male counterparts. The report indicated that women were rarely cited for using more force than necessary, in large part because female officers are more communicative, more skillful at de-escalating potentially violent situations, and less confrontational… Many officers, both male and female, believe female officers are less personally challenged by defiant subjects and feel less need to deal with defiance with immediate force or confrontational language.

Because there was persuasive evidence that most female officers use a style of policing that minimizes the use of excessive force and inappropriate confrontations, the Commission concluded, the continued existence of discrimination against female officers can deprive the department of specific skills and thereby contribute to the problem of excessive force. Their recommendation: Feminize the force.

A 2005 study titled Women Police: The Use of Force by and Against Female Officers reaffirmed those assertions. The findings suggest that female officers and same-gender female-female officer pairs generally use less force in police-citizen encounters than do their male counterparts. The influence of officer gender remained significant even after considering other potentially perplexing factors including gender differences in the need to use high levels of force and bias associated with extreme scores for a small group of male officers. There was no evidence to support the proposition that citizens used less force against female officers compared to male officers. Overall, the findings support the original assertions that women and men perform policing duties differently and that hiring more women as police officers may help to reduce excessive force in some police departments.

Unfortunately, police training has emphasized the opposite. Police officers have been overly desensitized to killing during training, which builds an unreal fear base. Day in and day out for one solid year of probation, they’ve heard, If you do that, you’ll get wasted. Add to this equation the notion that the male must constantly prove himself to be a man according to the standards set by the men around him and a culture that demands a code of silence, and you wind up with a toxic mix.

Police work is not about physical altercations … [or] about shooting people, my friend Joseph Wambaugh, a fourteen-year veteran of the LAPD and bestselling author of police and crime books, told an interviewer in 1991. He stipulated that we need women police chiefs and police forces of 50 percent women or more because female cops can go a long way toward helping to mitigate the super-aggressive, paramilitary macho myth of the gung-ho cop and introducing the sobering element of maturity in police work.

A 1992 Time magazine article agreed with that premise:

The growing presence of women may help burnish the tarnished image of police officers, improve community relations, and foster a more flexible, and less violent, approach to keeping the peace.

The heart of social oppression is power and control through the use of accepted discrimination. It’s an underlying, ugly practice that fosters hate and violence. We’ve still got a lot of work to do on that front. Still, we’ve come a long way.

When I was on the department, the LAPD could not fathom the potential of Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (as amended by the Equal Employment Act of 1972) or begin to envision the traumatic social change destined to unfold from its enactment. To a woman, myself included, the department’s female officers were cowed by fear and dared not confront the chief of police about higher promotions and better assignments for women. But I would come to know firsthand that as long as people refuse to honor guaranteed rights and as long as aggrieved people refuse to act, discrimination persists.

When we are denied our civil rights and freedoms, and we raise no hand to stop the denial, we are guilty of deserting human dignity. Freedom is based on courage. Only by challenging that power and control can democracy deliver a reality of the people, by the people, and for the people. Fortunately, change, however long it takes, cannot be stopped.

1

Enough!

The words CONFIDENTIAL SURVEY caught my attention. I picked up the paper and read: A Survey to Justify Why Men Do Not Want to Work with Policewomen. I loved the LAPD. But I sure didn’t love the way they treated the women on the force. Were things about to get worse?

I looked around the LAPD squad room, where I worked as a detective investigating forgery, but no one was paying attention to me. I gazed again at the paper I held. It was from the chief’s office, complete with an authenticated signature. For years, I had protested the fact that no new women officers were being hired, and that a substantial number of female sworn officers had already been reassigned to desk jobs. Now it seemed that management was setting up a justification to eliminate women from the job altogether.

Surely, the chief had more brains than to try to circulate something as bizarre as this survey, but nobody else would dare take that kind of action without his knowledge. I couldn’t let this go unchallenged. I would have to flush it out into the open, which meant confronting the chief. I couldn’t do that alone. He would crucify me.

I convinced the president of the Los Angeles Policewomen’s Association to ask the chief to explain the blatantly anti-female survey to his female officers. Surprisingly, he agreed to meet with us on January 13, 1971.

It’s been brought to my attention that the men do not want to work with women, he announced after taking the stage in the police auditorium in front of about one hundred of us. The survey confirms this allegation.

The fact that he didn’t deny the survey seemed to confirm what we had suspected all along. He’d had a hand in the survey from the beginning.

As you know, he continued, I’m in the process of re-evaluating the entire structure of the police department.

He proceeded to explain that he planned to reduce the number of women officers from some one hundred eighty down to no more than twelve. Perhaps female reserve officers could be used for those situations where the handling of a female required a woman to be present, he hypothesized.

My God! I could feel my blood pressure rise. I gripped the arms of my seat and tightened my lips to keep from saying anything.

He whispered a few words to Deputy Chief Dale Speck, who stood beside him, and then turned back to us. And, ladies, if you have questions, I’ll answer what I can.

I could feel the shared anger as I heard the women mutter.

The bastard!

How dare he?

What can we do?

I could also sense how scared they were to challenge the chief. Unable to stand it any longer, I rose to be recognized. Chief Davis, I said.

He peered out from under his hand, shading his eyes. Fanchon. That you, Fanchon?

Yes, sir.

I was a little nervous, he said. I thought you’d never speak up. He and Speck laughed.

Sir, I find it difficult to believe what I’ve heard from you today. Do you mean to tell me and the rest of these women who have been screened, trained, and worked as police officers that we’re not qualified? There’s Sergeant Leola Vess with her master’s degree in psychology. Sergeant Marie Thomas with her law degree. Sergeant Jerry Lambert with her bio-scientific degree. Sergeant Marjorie Cramer who speaks, reads, and writes seven foreign languages fluently. That’s just to name a few. Myself with a major’s military commission. All the women have graduated from the police academy. And you’re standing here, telling us that we can’t be assigned to police responsibilities?

He nodded. I knew you’d get my meaning. I believe street detail is beneath the dignity of a woman. You have no business playing cops like the men.

That’s your opinion, sir. Every corporation in this city would gladly recruit this caliber of women to work for them. We’re one hundred and eighty educated, intelligent women capable of far more than we’ve been allowed to demonstrate. I sat down.

The idea of a woman becoming a lieutenant is ridiculous, he countered. You know you can’t handle the pressures of the job. He stepped away from the podium to the edge of the stage. You know what I mean. You have your little monthlies and go through the change of life.

Our little monthlies! Was he kidding? He had actually just said out loud that a woman’s period was reason enough to deny her advancement?

Davis’ insulting comments shocked the other policewomen as much as me. He had become so cocksure of himself since the city council had passed his recent reorganization ordinance that he couldn’t resist boasting about his intentions to phase most of us off the department. He clearly felt there wasn’t a damned thing I or anybody could do to stop him.

Not since marching in unison with a battalion of WACs (Women’s Army Corps) at Fort Des Moines in the ’40s had I felt more in step with my fellow female officers. The department’s refusal to let us promote had been as irrational as it was infuriating. And now this.

I stared at the chief and clenched my teeth. I wouldn’t let him get away with eliminating women from the job just because of our sex.

You don’t know it, Chief, I thought, but war has just been declared between us. I’ll not be your pawn. A queen checkmates a king.

He had already established his position, but by raising a stink, I could take his chessmen. I would appear at every commission and council hearing I could when the subject of policewomen was on their agendas. He would come to know I was not afraid to fight.

Determination is fine, but strategy wins the war. I figured if I were going to step into the waters, I would stand a better chance if I found highly positioned women to back me. I knew just who I needed to approach. Through my work in the bunco-forgery division, I had gotten the opportunity to deal with Judge Joan Dempsey Klein, an appeals judge who would become California’s senior presiding justice, in court. A woman judge on our side would add clout to my mission.

Judge Klein was as smart as she was down to earth. Just a minute, she had once remarked when a policeman was on the stand. Are you wearing a black shoe and a brown shoe? That just tickled me. I figured she would take my call, and I was right.

I have a matter to discuss with you, I said. I’d like an appointment.

Fine, she answered. Let’s go to lunch.

Over burgers at the Hamburger Hamlet, I explained the pattern of discrimination that the women on the LAPD, myself included, had been subjected to. As a pioneer in the legal arena and one of the few women on the bench, she, too, had battled to push her way into a male-dominated profession. Along the way, she had met, in her words, a huge headwind of opposition. So she understood all too well what we women on the LAPD were up against. She didn’t mince words.

Sue the bastards, Fanchon, she said. You women have been waiting years for the chief to bestow rank. It will never happen. They have no intention of elevating women. You’ll have to fight for equality or accept what you’ve always been given—token positions.

That was assuming we stayed on the force at all since the chief wanted to get rid of us. Someone had to have enough guts to take this fight to the courts. I wondered whether that someone would be me.

2

Jumping into Police Work

I knew nothing about the Los Angeles Police Department in 1947 when I began the civil service written, oral, physical agility, and physical examinations, each designed to weed out candidates. At age twenty-six, after a successful five-year Army career, which included serving in World War II and being promoted to captain, I had left to get married. The happy union—my second—lasted just six months.

I could have been sucked into that vortex of self-pity, but that’s just not the type of person I am. Instead, I sat up in bed one morning, threw the covers off, and bounced out of bed as I recounted my blessings. How lucky that I had my sister Jean’s love, support, and hospitality. My high school diploma would be worth something. And surely the rank of captain wouldn’t be ignored. Change my attitude, and I would change my life. I would take what I had accomplished and find a job.

Eventually, I relocated to Los Angeles after landing a temporary three-month contract as a county deputy sheriff overseeing women inmates in one of the local jails. But I wanted fieldwork, and the LAPD was offering downtown beat assignments and higher pay. Besides, being a cop just felt right to me. In middle school, I was a hall guard. I joined the Army after high school and became a captain. It was as if this kind of work was in my blood.

All the LAPD had to do was show me how to perform. I stood up straight and grinned. We’ll clean up Main Street, I thought. I can take care of myself. I felt my formed muscle underneath my shirt sleeve. If I have to, I can fight dirty.

***

I could already see myself in LAPD blues, having passed the written examination, when I learned the physical agility test to be held at the police academy required scaling a six-foot wall. Not even in the WAC officer’s class did I have to do more than twenty mandatory push-ups. But this was the vaunted LAPD pre-hire physical agility test, which would dramatically cut the list of female applicants.

I knew I would do well in the shooting portion of the trial. When I was eight and living in California’s isolated Tehachapi Mountains, my dad had taught me to shoot so I could protect myself from snakes. Oh, yes, I could accurately hit my prey. But I was less confident about the rest of the test.

I needed to practice. So I headed out to the police academy in Elysian Park. I wasn’t prepared for the scenic view as I drove under the filigreed black-iron police academy sign. The early morning sun rose through the eucalyptus treetops that hugged the sloping ravine. Then I saw the six-foot wall standing by itself on the athletic field across the road from the academy building. I froze. I wasn’t about to find out if I could get over it in plain view, especially since I hadn’t engaged in that type of physical activity since climbing live oak trees as a seven-year-old.

I returned well after hours a few days later, determined to learn how to get over that wall. No luck. For the next three weeks, I spent many moonlit hours trying to figure out the technique of running, jumping, and vaulting over the wall. Night after night, I went home battered and bruised, but I persisted. Then, just forty-eight hours before the scheduled test, having watched how the men used leverage, I found the rhythm and coordination that put me over that infernal wall. It was a miracle how easy it was. After several more flyovers, I landed on my feet. I couldn’t control the victory yell that erupted. I was ready.

It wasn’t easy waiting my turn as I watched one woman after another struggle to pull their hanging bodies over the top and fail. On your mark, the timer barked. Get ready, go. My gym shoes dug into the dirt path as I ran. I timed my lead. My feet slammed the wall waist-high, as my hands grabbed the top. I used my momentum to swing my big butt, which felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, up and over. I had beaten the wall, the one significant elimination for most failed applicants! I landed in a crouch and took off through a maze of flat tires, pumping my knees and hoping I wouldn’t fall on my rear end. Thankfully, running the tires, which hadn’t shown up until today, proved less challenging than mastering the technique of vaulting the wall. I completed the test at a full-speed run around the oval field. A thumbs-up from the male officer sent my spirits soaring. Now I just had to get through my orals, having already passed the written portion.

To help prepare for the oral and written exams, at the first of the year I had enrolled in the University of Southern California’s criminal law class on penal code. On the last day of the semester, I raced to class, anxious to learn how I had fared on the final test. At five o’clock, the downtown, second-floor classroom felt like a sauna. As the only woman, I chose to sit in the rear behind twenty male police officers. Our instructor from the Los Angeles Police Department leaned against the blackboard with his hands in his pockets. When he pushed away from the wall, his tweed jacket flapped open, showing his .38 detective special and the badge on his belt. Where would I wear a gun? I wondered. Under my armpits, I would run into trouble with a thirty-eight-inch bust. Around my waist, it would be bulky in women’s clothing.

He looked around the room at each of us. When his black eyes reached mine, I looked away. The final exam was a surprise, gentlemen. The lady in this class takes the honors.

My hands flew to my mouth—he was talking about me.

Every head turned to stare. Excuse me, gentlemen, the handsome instructor said. I need to have a word with Fanchon. It’ll only take a few seconds.

After a whole semester, I had finally caught his attention, but I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to talk to me about. He bent over until his lips were close to my ear. A whiff of sweet-smelling aftershave sent a thrill up my back.

Would you mind leaving early? he whispered, his voice raspy as usual.

That thrill in my back vanished as I shut my notebook and reached for my purse. He touched my arm and moved to look directly into my eyes. I’m not used to a woman in my class, he said. On the last day of a semester, I tell off-color jokes. It helps the men loosen up, especially if they’re disappointed.

He straightened and turned from me. I gathered my belongings and was pulling the door shut when I heard, There goes another Dickless Tracy. The men roared with laughter. What a bastard! Angry but undaunted, I tucked away the put-down for future ammunition and focused on qualifying to become a cadet at the police academy. I knew I would have to place in the upper 10 percent to qualify.

When the letter with the city seal arrived several weeks after my oral exam, I poured a scotch and soda, sat on the couch, and tore it open. I whooped when I saw the words You are directed to report to the police academy on May 17th, 1948, at 8:00 a.m. Thank God.

I had struggled to make this happen. Three months of experience as a county jailer had convinced me I didn’t want to be a turnkey on the thirteenth floor of the women’s jail at the Hall of Justice. Recently divorced, I was emotionally depleted, broke, and terrified that I couldn’t take care of myself. With this call to report to the Los Angeles Police Academy, I could change my life.

***

On May 17, 1948, two days after my 27th birthday, the bright morning with blue skies matched my optimism. I strode up the winding road in Elysian Park, passed male trustees from the city jail cleaning the street gutters, and entered the police academy through the brick gates. The grounds spread out on both sides of the arroyo nestled in a pocket of the foothills. Despite my high heels, I swung my shoulders as I walked, a habit I had retained from marching in the Army. I turned right to pass the small-arms firing range with its black silhouetted targets held at the ready, passed under the tree-covered walkway that bordered the Olympic-size swimming pool, and joined other women candidates gathered in the shade of the gymnasium. Across the road on